Page 42 of Wedded to the Scottish Duke

CHAPTER 12

“Dear God,” Keith muttered under his breath as he moved toward the drinks table, looking through the decanters of port and sweet wine as he searched for a good whisky.

The poetry evening Lady Arundel had arranged seemed to be pleasing many in the room, but Keith certainly wasn’t one of them. As far as he was concerned, all of this poetry was nonsense. It was a way to try and put the world into meter and rhyme, forcing something that couldn’t be reasoned into something structured.

Aye, life is never that simple.

His main distraction wasn’t helping matters. He could still feel the thrill coursing through his veins from what he and Celia had done that afternoon.

The way her back arched off the bed, her red hair spread across the pillows, was more intoxicating than any whisky he’d ever had in his life. The feel of her, the way her body had tightened with the pleasure was everything to him.

Those thrills had been even greater with the way she had opened herself to his perhaps more intense ways of lovemaking. She hadn’t objected when he’d pinned her hands above her head. She had even hissed with pleasure when he had spanked her in that most thrilling of ways.

Deep down in his gut, something tightened with the longing to have her again.

I cannot. Wake up, ye fool.

He turned his back on the table, frustrated to have not found a whisky to distract him.

It seemed he was not the only one uninterested in the poetry recital. Xander and the Duke of Berkley appeared at his side, both reaching for drinks.

“Isn’t there a better way to spend an evening?” the Duke of Berkley asked with a sigh.

“Violet is fond of her writing,” Xander said with a smile. “But this poetry is testing even her patience.” He nodded toward his wife, who had a rather forced smile on her face. “Endless poetry… it’s too much for anyone.”

“Especially this sort of poetry,” Keith agreed, wincing along with the two men beside him as a lady started reciting from a poetry book, talking about great love and how it was like finding out one had wings, making one soar to the heavens.

“I rather think the writers have never been in love,” the Duke of Berkley said with a sigh. “Anything good to drink here?”

“No whisky,” Keith grunted.

“Try this instead.” Xander poured a burnished brown liquid. “You like whisky, so you might like this.”

“Brandy? I’ve had that before.”

“Perhaps not one like this.” Xander waited as Keith took a sip.

It was strong like whisky. Perhaps not quite as smooth and strong, but certainly more pleasant than the ridiculously sweet wines on offer.

“It’s Armagnac,” Xander explained. “It suits a stronger palate.”

“Thank ye.” Keith smiled and took another sip.

As the two men returned to their seats, he stayed where he was, still unwilling to join the others. He took a sip of his Armagnac and stared at the ceiling, thinking of Celia, who was still confined to her bed.

Could I join her there? Could I sneak away?

He couldn’t forget the look of shock on her face as he pulled away. Perhaps there had even been a flash of pain there.

It wasn’t about ye, Celia.

He adjusted his shirt, thinking of the scars on his back. They had been put there long ago, and he was not willing to talk about the way they had gotten there with anyone. Not even with Celia, whom he had told quite a bit during their chess game.

“Your Grace,” a timid voice called to him.

He jerked his head around in surprise to see Lady Alicia approaching him. She curtsied, rather bashfully, hiding her face.

I suppose it’s an act. Many men would like that look.

---